


A Day to Live For

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bodyswap, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, New Avengers, Tony Stark Hates Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: Tony goes to sleep in a cave in Afghanistan and wakes up in a bed in New York City—and that's not even the strange part.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ...This has been sitting 95% finished for ages...please take this garbage story.... Get it our of our sight (and also our WIP folder)!! 
> 
> Hopefully the sheer volume of typos won't make you think any less of us, haha.

Tony struggled against the hand pressed between his shoulder blades, tried to kick or throw the man off, but he was too strong. His lungs were burning, his eyes stung and this throat burned, from the water, from screaming, and he tried not to breath in the murky water but he could feel the chill creeping into his lungs anyway.

It _hurt_. The pain wasn’t just in his chest, in his lungs or around the magnet keeping his heart from being shredded, but _everywhere_ —his skin burned with the feeling, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was his imagination and how much was real anymore. He needed air. His hands scraped along the side of the rusty basin, looking for purchase, but the terrorist holding him under was much stronger than him, and another set of hands closed around his wrists, wrenching them behind him. The wires on the arc reactor were shorting, setting his nerves on fire with little bursts of electricity every time the insulation peeled back far enough to expose the wires to the water.

He couldn’t hold his breath much longer. They were going to kill him this time, he was going to drown in a rusty bucket of disgusting fucking water in the middle of fucking nowhere, but he would go down fighting if he went down at all. Tony twisted in the man’s grip, wrenching one arm free with stars bursting in front of his eyes. He could feel himself fading, and he clung desperately to consciousness and elbowed the man viciously, throwing his grip off slightly. His vision went fuzzy, ebbing into darkness and he pulled together all of his strength before blacking out completely to throw himself back one more time—

—against nothing.

Tony fell back with a strangled shout, suddenly struggling against no resistance, and his head banged against something wooden, setting his ears ringing. He spun around wildly, pulling at the blankets pooled at his waist in a white-knuckled grip, searching for the terrorist that had suddenly released him. His heart was hammering in his chest.

Tony felt a hand brush against his arm and he lashed out at it, pushing backwards and _away_ before he could register that there was no longer anything solid beneath him.

Tony inhaled sharply as he hit the ground, already trying to rip himself free from the tangle of blankets—why were there blankets?—that he’d dragged down with him. This was wrong, so very wrong. His gaze flitted wildly around him, taking in the room, the bed. The carpet was soft and everything was clean, all sharp and modern and nothing like the cave he’d been in just seconds ago. Whoever it was that had touched his arm was sitting frozen on the bed, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, and although it was too dark to make out his face, Tony knew he’d never seen the man anywhere in the caves.

Tony’s pulse was thrumming in his ears, and it took him a moment to realize that the man was murmuring to him in soothing tones.

“—just a nightmare, Tony, calm down. It’s me. You’re safe,” he said, and Tony whined.

“I don’t...who the _hell_ —?” The man was speaking English, the way he spoke made him sound like he knew him. Tony cursed.

He pushed off the floor, heading for the nearest door and slamming it between them. He fumbled along the wall for a moment, whirling around to find himself in a hallway. Tony wasted no time, taking off at a run down the hall with his sock-clad feet slipping on the hardwood.

_What the fuck was going on?_ He had no idea what this place was, but he noted the pictures on the walls with mild horror—pictures of him, and that man, and several other people he’d never seen before in his life. More paintings—they had to be paintings, or photoshops, or maybe they were using models?—with ridiculous images of Captain America in a modern setting, alongside modern heroes he’d never seen before. He paused, just briefly, to take in one of the photos: him, standing arm-in-arm with Captain America, with a man who must be eight feet tall holding a tiny woman with wings in his palm, and another man next to them lifting an enormous hammer skyward.

_What was the point of all this?_ It all looked so real, and at the same time laughably unbelievable.

It wasn’t going to work on him, though. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t remember that he’d never posed for any of these pictures or met these people before, that he’d just been vomiting up water in the dark. He couldn’t see the point to any of this. It couldn’t be to mess with him. There was no way they would have used something as flimsy as Captain America being alive if they were actually trying to fool him. Tony’s heart was thumping wildly in his chest, it felt like it was going to burst—

He froze, stopping cold in the hallway.

His heart was...

His heart was beating.

Tony nearly ripped his shirt trying to get the buttons undone. The skin was smooth and unscarred, and he hesitantly reached to touch it. There wasn’t even the slightest trace of the battery Yinsen had stuck in his chest. Even with the most advanced medicine available, there would have been _something_ there from the weeks his wounds had gone untreated. This—

This was seriously messed up. He couldn’t say that he missed the car battery, but there was something wrong here, and Tony couldn’t begin to fathom how they’d done it or what was happening. The thought made his blood run cold.

…if they had someone who could manage to create such an elaborate fantasy, and so quickly, what could they possibly want from him?

“Tony! Aunt May made pancakes!” Tony whirled on his heel, cursing himself for letting someone sneak up on him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. The man from the bedroom maybe, even a terrorist wielding more Stark weapons. He was not expecting to find a man clinging to the ceiling with his feet, face hovering mere inches from his.

“What the—?” Tony flailed, and the man dodged out of the way completely unperturbed, as though he’d seen the attack coming. He was holding a rolled up pancake in his hand, like he couldn’t bring himself part with his food long enough to warrant eating like a normal person, and he was wearing… striped pajamas. Already reeling backwards, Tony skidded on the floor for a moment before pushing through the nearest doorway, just trying to put some distance between them.

“Calm down! There’s plenty for everyone,” he called after him, and Tony registered his word choice— _for everyone_ —just in time to throw himself through the door. It banged against the wall loudly, and he froze as the group inside fell silent.

The kitchen was teeming with people. An older woman was cooking pancakes at the stove. A shorter man was standing opposite them, leaning against the wall, scowling and drinking a beer. Another woman clinging to the wall. A black man and woman—his wife?—feeding a _baby_ , and Jesus Christ what kind of terrorists brought their kid along when they kidnapped someone?

He skirted around the table, edging away from the group along the countertops. A flat screen TV was nestled in the corner of the room, playing cartoons he’d never seen before, and the volume seemed way too high in comparison to the silence that had fallen over the room. He glanced back to the door he’d come in through just as the man he’d seen in the hall crawled in along the wall, then away, gaze flitting around as he looked for another escape route. There was one other door, on the other side of the room next to the stove. He could probably reach it before any of them could follow.

For all he knew, it could just lead to a pantry.

There was a knife block on the counter a few steps away. He eyed it, gauging how quickly he could reach it before someone stopped him. Would it even be worth it? Something told him it wouldn’t, that they’d overpower him, but his fingers itched to do something, anyway.

Tony looked back to the group, who had all turned in their seats to watch him. They were all staring at him expectantly, Tony realized.

“Uh, you okay Tony?” the man clinging to the wall like a spider asked. Tony didn’t answer him, just stared, because okay, he may be a snarky little shit but he knew when to push someone and that time is not when he’s surrounded by… terrorists? Even terrorists who don’t look the part, and _especially_ terrorists with superpowers and some kind of ulterior motive behind fabricating a life for him.

He dropped down onto the floor and Tony took an involuntary step back. The action just caused the man to look more concerned, and when Tony glanced to the rest of the group they seemed to be thinking the same thing, because they shifted uncomfortably at the table, and though they made no move toward him Tony flinched anyway.

“Stay back,” he warned.

“Where’s Cap?” the black man asked him. Tony considered him for a second.

“Who?” That seemed to be the wrong response, because the man exchanged a look with his wife before she scooped the baby up from its high chair, not seeming to care or even notice the oatmeal on the baby’s cheek—and now her shirt—as she held it to her chest. The man stepped defensively in front of them both, and that seemed like an odd reaction, because honestly how the fuck was he supposed to know who that was, who any of them were, this was like some kind of fucked-up Twilight Zone shit, and honestly he was getting sick of being jerked around like they expected he wouldn’t remember that, _oh hey_ , terrorists! He decided to cut to the chase.

“It’s not going to work,” Tony said flatly, and he was backed up as far as he could, hip pressed into the counter. “This—I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but I’m not building you _shit_.”

“What do you think we’re trying to do, Tony?” the woman clinging to the wall asked slowly. Her voice was calm…but also compelling, somehow, and despite himself Tony automatically wanted to answer her. The mother crinkled her nose and shot her a look, and the rest of the men in the room all turned to look at her.

“You’re trying to make me build you weapons,” Tony said, then quickly added, “I won’t do it. I—” He knew where refusing to build the weapons got him, he knew he should just shut his damn mouth and focus on getting away from these people, but his mouth was moving without his brain’s permission. He couldn’t resist answering her, and he found the words spilling out before he could stop them, “I’ve already killed enough people, just kids, _God_ maybe even Rhodey, oh God, I don’t know… I didn’t see—”

“Tony,” she interrupted him, and he closed his mouth with a loud click, “where do you think you are?”

Before Tony could answer, the kitchen door flew open again, and the man from the bedroom stormed in. Relief ebbed into his expression when he saw Tony standing there, and the man started toward him.

Tony made a little panicked noise and stepped away, because he knew where this was going, this was headed right back to being drowned and electrocuted and burned just like every other time he’d refused to build weapons for them. He wouldn’t go back. He reached behind him and yanked one of the knives out of the block, pointing it at the man.

“ _You_ stay away from me,” he warned, willing his hand to be steady. He felt ridiculous, because honestly there was no way he was going to fight his way through all of them with just a kitchen knife, but the man stopped in his tracks anyway.

“Steve,” the woman clinging to the wall warned, dropping to the floor gracefully, as though floating. There was the same calm note to her voice, and Tony glanced between her and Steve warily.

Steve raised his hands in the same placating gesture as earlier. “Put the knife down, Tony.”

Steve was talking to him like he was out of his mind, as though the soothing tones would make him come to his senses. Tony ignored him, his grip on the knife tightening. He studied the group carefully.

They looked… well, they looked concerned. Not just because he had a knife, but _for him_. They were all looking at him like there was some big secret that he’d just forgotten, and if they waited long enough he’d realize his mistake and join them for breakfast.

He hesitated. His hand was shaking.

“I’m in… was in Afghanistan,” he answered the woman slowly, “I mean, I was just—I was _just_ in Afghanistan,” Tony insisted, pleading as though seeking confirmation from them.

“You’re in New York, Tony. In Avenger’s tower,” the woman with the baby said. She was still cradling the girl to her chest, and the baby was staring at him curiously, babbling contented nonsense into her mother’s shirt.

“Avengers…?” Tony repeated. “What’s an Avenger?”

Steve frowned, looking terribly sad that Tony didn’t remember.

“The Avengers are a team of superheroes. You helped build it from the ground up. Literally, several times, remember?” he answered, as though enough prompting would make the memories come flooding back.

Tony thought he would remember something like that.

“I don’t think I am who you think I am,” Tony said finally, and his eyes flicked between the two wall-crawlers as he added, “I’m not super...and I’m not… not a hero.”

“No, not super. Not technically,” Steve agreed. He left the hero comment alone, though he’d looked sad when Tony tacked it onto the end. This was getting too…conversational. He changed the topic.

“How did I get here?” Tony demanded.

“You live here.”

“I live in Malibu.”

“You haven’t lived in California for years, Tony,” Steve said, and he grabbed the remote from where it was sitting on the counter, flipping the television from the cartoons to the news.

“I was watching that,” pajama-guy complained.

The news station was talking about the presidential campaign, but the candidates were different, and Tony watched for a moment, his forehead bunching in confusion. He hadn’t been in the cave that long. A long time, yes, but not nearly long enough to lose track of years of his life.

This didn’t make sense. They were still giving him that earnest look, the expectant do-you-understand-that-you’re-being-crazy look. Tony tried to come up with some argument to justify this. People could manipulate a video, make it look authentic…but he knew that wasn’t the case. It looked real. As crazy as it was, this all looked real. These people weren’t terrorists. According to Steve, they were superheroes.

He supposed that explained the wall-crawlers.

Tony looked down at the knife in his hand, and then weakly tossed it on the counter, where it bounced and slid a few inches before coming to a stop against the coffee machine.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Tony admitted.

“That’s okay,” Steve said gently. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

 

Tony sat at the table in an unfamiliar kitchen, surrounded by unfamiliar people, and tried not to look too lost. If he was failing, they had the good manners to let him lose his shit in peace while they held the most bizarre brainstorming session Tony had ever seen. 

"It’s magic," Luke said. "It’s gotta be magic. Anyone try to get a hold of Dr. Strange?"

"Magic." Tony's brow furrowed. "What, like ‘pull a rabbit out of a hat’ kind of magic?"

"More like extra-dimensional demons and trickster gods,” Peter said, “but the rabbit thing too."

Tony squinted at them. "And that's...a reasonable suggestion?"

"Sadly," Steve said. "It's also the most likely explanation."

Tony could not possibly fathom how Steve could believe that _magic_ was more plausible than Tony simply...going crazy, or something, but he was immensely grateful. A part of that had to reflect on the insanity of the Avenger's daily lives, but also on Steve's inclination to trust Tony— _his_ Tony, the one who’s life he’d not-so-gracefully stepped into—even when the situation was unbelievable.

“My money’s on the kid from yesterday,” Carol said. “The one with the weird stolen ray gun. My guess is he didn’t realize what kind of effect it would have on the people he zapped with it.”

“I don’t know how he could have done this without any of us noticing,” Luke said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Steve said. “Tony—” He turned to give Tony a deadpan look, and Tony instinctively shrunk down a little in his chair, which was ridiculous, because he didn’t _do_ anything.

Steve seemed to very grudgingly accept that being irritated at Tony would do him no good, sighed in irritation, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “ _My_ Tony,” he corrected, “took a hit from some kind of blast yesterday. Had a big bruise on his shoulder to show for it. He said he was _fine_ , and all it did was fry the circuits in his armor.”

“I’m guessing there were some delayed effects,” Luke said.

"Should we contact Doctor Strange?" Jess asked.

“Try,” Steve sighed, exasperated but not surprised, like this was just another Tuesday for him. 

After that the group dispersed, some of them likely leaving to call Doctor Strange. Tony swore he heard Spider-Man whisper _Not it_ under his breath. So. That definitely wasn’t cause to worry. He took a deep breath into his unencumbered lungs and tried his very best to relax.

 

 

Steve waited as the Avengers left, watching Tony patiently. Tony sat twisting the button on his cuff between his fingers, the nervous habit the only thing betraying how he was feelling.

“Hey,” Tony said, once most of the Avengers had cleared out. “I have questions.”

“I’d be a little surprised if you didn’t,” Steve said. He gestured down the hall that led to their...that is, his and Tony’s bedroom. He paused in the hall outside the room.

“Who are you?” Tony asked, tugging thoughtfully at his sleeves, “I mean really. To me.” Steve hesitated at that. He wasn’t entirely sure Tony needed to hear the answer to that right now.

“I’m…I’m Captain America,” Steve said. Tony’s eyes narrowed.

“Captain America is dead,” Tony responded. “My dad looked. He never found anything.”

“I was frozen, until the Avengers found me and pulled me out of the ice,” Steve said.

Tony looked him over appraisingly. “So you’re actually Captain America?” Tony asked.

“Yes,” Steve said.

“The real one?”

“That’s right.”

“From the forties?”

“Yes.”

“Why are we wearing matching rings?” Tony asked, and Steve’s stalled. Obviously nervous, trying not to freak Tony out. He was already worrying the ring nervously on his finger, anticipating the answer and unsure how he was going to respond once he’d gotten it. Tony was a genius. He’d put two-and-two together the moment he’d bothered to remember waking up in bed with him this morning.

Well, to hell with it. Tony hated being handled with kid-gloves, anyway.

“We’re married,” Steve said. “We got married last year.”

Tony made a little ‘ah’ noise and continued twisting the ring around on his finger. Steve waited for the other shoe to drop.

When Tony didn’t say anything else, he cocked his head to the side, giving him a searching look. Tony glanced between him and the ring, raising his shoulder in a half-shrug.

“That’s, um,” he began, and he swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. His gaze flicked from Steve’s hand to his lips, then away, his expression completely blank. “I’m just gonna…” Tony trailed off, heading for the bedroom.

“Tony?” Steve reached out to catch his arm, but Tony pulled himself out of Steve’s grasp.

“I’m surprised that I was...” he trailed off with a sort of self-deprecating chuckle that Steve knew all too well, “Or, I guess I will be—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and then blurted, “I mean, fuck, you _married me_? On _purpose_?”

Steve stepped back, offended. “Of course,” he said.

Tony stared at him as though he’d grown another head. “I think I need a minute,” he decided, and with that he pulled the door closed.

Steve didn’t hear the lock, but he didn’t try the doorknob, anyway. He’d expected…much worse, actually. 

 

Steve believed Tony. He didn’t really have any justification to—logically, assuming that it was all in his head was a hell of a lot more likely that any sort of transdimensional soul-swapping. But they were Avengers…unlikely was sort of their thing.

Tony had seemed entirely himself when he went to bed last night, anyway, and Steve didn’t want to think that he might not have noticed something was off with his husband.

Steve hesitated at the door. He hadn’t actually had the chance to get dressed yet. He’d been running around all morning in sweatpants and nothing else, which was not much better than Tony in his nightshirt and boxers. Getting dressed for the day hadn’t seemed like a priority when Steve had seen how terrified Tony looked.

Now that the excitement was over, he needed clothes. He considered asking Tony to let him in long enough to grab a shirt, but decided against it. Tony had said he needed space. He could give him that, at least.

Steve padded barefoot back down the hall toward the training room to get the spare set of clothes he kept there. They were old but not dirty, and better than going shirtless. He grabbed a pair of Tony’s sneakers, too, because his boots were sitting along the wall next to his closet. Maybe a short run would make him feel better. It was better than wringing his hands while they waited to hear what Stephen thought of this whole mess.

 

 

Steve let himself into the tower an hour later, and a quick loop through the dining area and bedrooms showed that no one was around save for Jarvis, who assured him that he hadn’t seen Tony since that morning. He found Logan sleeping on the couch, but no Tony, and Steve let himself down into the workshop only slightly puzzled.

Honestly, it should have been the first place he looked. The lab was locked, and while Tony’s systems were impressive, he wasn’t surprised when he found that the codes had been overridden. The door was already unlocked, but Steve entered his own access code before pushing through anyway, because he knew that the input would alert Tony to his presence for him.

Steve found Tony sitting on the far end of the workshop, on one of the three-legged stools that usually sat snug against the workbench. Tony had dragged the stool over to where the armor was resting, propped up on a block and in a state of disrepair. Tony had been working on re-wiring the repulsors after they’d cut out during their last fight with Doom when Steve coaxed him into bed last night, promising him that he’d have plenty of time to finish in the morning.

Tony was holding the Iron Man helmet in his hands, as though he was preparing to quote Shakespeare, though the intent look on his face told him that the observation would probably be unwelcome.

Tony didn’t look up at him, didn’t really make any attempt to acknowledge his presence, but he shifted the helmet around his in grasp as Steve approached. Steve watched the seemingly aimless movements for a moment before he understood.

Tony was trying to maneuver the helmet to an angle that he couldn’t see his reflection, Steve realized, and the twisting in his gut returned full force. Beneath all of his bravado and cock-sure attitude, Tony had a penchant for self-loathing, more than anyone else could possibly guess, all expertly hidden behind the masks that he put on for the public, and his company, even his friends.

The image brought up the memories of dragging a drunken Tony out of his workshop, of years spent coaxing Tony out from the bottom of a bottle. He was harder on himself than he could justify, and certainly more than anyone could ever deserve—he had been for as long as Steve had known him. It took months for Steve to actually convince him that his feelings for Tony were genuine, that he wasn’t leaving.

Now Tony had left him, not on purpose but certainly without warning, and Steve couldn’t help the loneliness that stemmed from that. This Tony wasn’t a carbon-copy of the Tony he’d once known, but his personality was much more similar to the Tony he’d met years ago, when he’d first been pulled from the ice, than the man he’d married.

“I made this.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact, and it pulled Steve back to the present. Tony looked up at him, “It was... I made this to escape.”

Steve nodded, resisting the urge to slide up next to him and pull him into a hug. He stopped next to the Iron Man armor instead, tracing the lines of the chest plate where they met with the shoulder.

“Did I do it?” Tony asked, and Steve turned to look at him, confused, so he clarified: “Did I build the weapons they asked for?”

“No. You said you would, but you lied and built the armor instead,” Steve said. Tony’s eyes flicked to the helmet again. He was nodding mutely, almost as though he wasn’t aware he was doing it.

“I wanted to,” Tony admitted quietly. “I just wanted it all to stop hurting, it hurt so much, it—” His hand drifted to his chest, to quell the phantom pains in his lungs, but when his hand brushed against the RT he pulled it back as though burned.

“I know,” Steve said, because he did, he’d committed it all to memory with hushed tones in the middle of the night, curled together beneath the blankets. “I’m sorry,” he added, because Tony was hurting, it didn’t matter whether he was his husband or not, he was still _Tony_ and that was enough.

Tony fixed him with a perplexed look. “It’s not your fault. You’re dead, or I guess frozen, I don’t know, but you couldn’t have—”

“I wish I could,” Steve interrupted him, and Tony fell silent again. He set the helmet down on the benchtop with a dull _clank_.

“Does he have nightmares?” Tony asked quietly. “Your Tony?”

“He used to. Not so much anymore,” Steve said.

“I don’t want to go back. I know that’s—selfish of me, because I’m not your Tony. I know I don’t belong here, but...” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air between them.

Steve grasped for what to say to that. A sharp beep from his comm cut him off. 

“Doctor Strange is here,” Spider-Woman said. 

“Oh, good,” Tony said, all traces of that earlier vulnerability gone in an instant. He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Let’s go find out what’s wrong with me.” 

 

 

They relocated to the living room, where the bulk of the Avengers could gather around and generally make a nuisance of themselves while Stephen worked. Peter made popcorn. 

“Is this really going to work?” Tony asked warily, as Strange painted a sigil on his forehead with chalk. 

“He knows what he’s doing, Tony, just trust him,” Steve said.

Stephen waved his hands, and the sigil began to glow and smoke, though if there was any heat to it, it didn’t seem to bother Tony. Instead he just made a face, scrunching his nose at the smell, rubbing his temple uncomfortably. Strange closed his eyes and hummed thoughtfully, allowing a long silence to draw out between them.

“He is certainly younger than the Tony I know,” Strange said thoughtfully. “Please sit still.”

Tony was watching his inspection with the sort of look you would give a performer of street magic. Steve supposed it must seem odd, watching Strange work for the first time.

“Time travel?” Steve asked. 

“Not quite. More like...a different plane, slightly offset from our own timeline. I can feel his consciousness seeking its way home,” Stephen said. “It is only a matter of time before it finds the way. Soon his connection to this dimension will weaken, and they will return to normal.”

“So... we do nothing and wait until it goes away?” Tony asked. “Thanks Doc, I don’t think I could have come up with that on my own.”

“You’re welcome,” Stephen said, deliberately ignoring the sarcasm.

“Stephen, can I speak with you in the kitchen?” Steve asked.

“Of course Captain,” Stephen said. He waited until they were alone before continuing, “This is about our Tony?”

“Yes,” Steve said, feeling the apprehension twisting in his gut like a knife. “If this Tony’s consciousness is here, then our Tony...did they trade places?”

“I believe he is here as well,” Stephen said. “At the back of Tony’s mind, sleeping.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. 

“I wouldn’t worry about him, Steve,” Stephen said. He chuckled a little to himself. “If anything, they’ve done him a favor. This is probably the longest night’s sleep he’s had in years.”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh with him, his relief at the news flooding him. His Tony would be fine. However long it took for things to reset themselves, everything _would_ go back to normal, eventually. Stephen assured him of that much. For now, they just needed to be patient and wait for the other Tony to return home on his own.

Steve glanced behind him, seeking out the man in question, but he had already excused himself from the room.

 

 

Tony retreated back to the lab, sporting an uncomfortable headache, and set to rummaging through the lab cabinets. Apparently he and this other Tony thought alike, because it took him only three tries to find what he was looking for and take it back to the main workbench.

At least he knew now that he wasn’t dying (probably), that this feeling as though the edges of his mind were pulling away from his body, like everything was coming unstuck, was actually proof that he was getting _better_. Steve followed shortly after, not even having the decency to give Tony enough time to take the edge off before finding him.

“So it looks like I’m stuck as a tourist for the time being. You want one? You look like you could use one,” Tony said. Steve’s gaze fell to the liquor bottle in Tony’s hand, and his stomach dropped out. He practically flew around the workbench. 

“Woah, hey, no. Give me that,” Steve said, roughly snatching the bottle from his hands. “Have you been drinking?”

“I was about to,” Tony replied, annoyed.

“But _have you been_?” Steve demanded.

“No,” Tony snapped. “Why?”

“Tony doesn’t drink,” Steve said. He upended the bottle over the lab sink and watched the amber liquid swirl down the drain, ran the tap until the smell had disappeared.

“So?” Tony crossed his arms and frowned into the sink.

“So _you_ don’t drink. It’s not your body. You’re not going to ruin that for him.” Steve threw the bottle into the trash can and then grabbed the liner, intending to get the bottle out of sight. “Where did you even get this?”

“I found it in the back of the cabinet,” Tony said. 

“You—in here?” Steve asked weakly.

“Uh oh. Am I gonna get him in trouble?” Tony asked. 

“No,” Steve said. “No, I trust him.”

“It was unopened, if that makes you feel better,” Tony offered.

“I trust him,” he repeated firmly. “He likes to prove to himself that he can resist the temptation.” Steve sighed, and the look on his face told him that he was not unfamiliar with such self-punishing behavior. “He can be a real idiot, sometimes.”

He tied a knot in the garbage liner. Tony swiveled back and forth in his chair. 

“This is awkward,” Tony said. 

Steve shrugged and set the garbage bag down on the floor while he fished a clean one out from under the lab sink. Once he’d replaced it he turned back to Tony, settling the full weight of his attention on him. He crossed his arms, tilted his chin up as though preparing for a fight, and asked:

“Are you okay?”

Tony worried the ring on his finger and shrugged, nonchalant. “Why do you ask, Cap?” he deflected. 

Steve wasn’t having it. He refused to be deterred, donning an infuriatingly patient expression. “Because I’m worried about you.”

“About your husband,” Tony said.

“About _you_ ,” Steve said. “This can’t be easy for you.”

Tony sighed. “You’re real persistent, you know that?” 

Steve shrugged. He’d been told as much, once or twice.

“When Doctor Strange was doing his whole,” he waved his arms theatrically, “thing, for a minute there everything started to get...wobbly. So. Good news for you! It looks like I’m not long for this world.”

“But I’m fine,” Tony added, noting Steve’s frown. “Really. I mean, I’m definitely not looking forward to going back anytime soon, but...hey, at least I’ve already been spoiled for the ending.”

“Tony…”

A high pitched beeping cut through the lab, cutting the conversation off. Tony turned to search for the source of the noise, but Steve was already one step ahead of him, pulling a beeping card out of the drawer on Tony’s workbench while he pulled his own from his wallet. He silenced them both with a press of his thumb. 

Tony glanced down at the flashing AVENGERS ASSEMBLE blinking on the front of the pager. "Do you need me to—"

"No!" Steve snapped with a little too much force. He quickly checked himself, cleared his throat and repeated, "No. Our Tony may be Iron Man, but you've never even piloted the suit before."

Steve made his way toward the stairs. Spider-Woman’s voice came through the comms, describing what she was seeing. Doombots, or something—the name was a little too on the nose for Tony’s tastes, but Steve seemed to recognize what she was talking about. 

Tony jogged to catch him at the landing, where several of the other Avengers were already gathering. "It can't be that hard," he said.

"It is the most advanced piece of technology you've ever created,” Steve said. “So yes, it is that hard, and no, you're not coming. The rest of us can handle this, War Machine’s already responded, he can cover for Iron Man. You can stay here with Jessica and Danni."

Tony had no idea who War Machine was, but he didn't like him on principle—no replacement of his should have a cooler code name. That just wasn't fair. But before Tony could say as much, Luke added, "And before you get any ideas about sneaking off to give the suit a test run, I'd like to remind you that Jessica can squash you."

"Like a grape," Jessica agreed cheerily.

Tony would protest that, but although he had yet to actually see Jessica in action he'd gotten a basic run-down of everyone's powers, so he really didn't doubt that she could.

A loud thunk drew his attention to the balcony. Tony turned to see what looked like a larger, gunmetal gray version of Iron Man. 

“Well, that’s our cue,” Spider-Man said.

Okay. Apparently War-Machine was Tony Stark approved. He supposed he should take back the whole _disliking him on principle_ thing. Though honestly, that brought up the whole new question of what was this universe’s Tony thinking, letting this guy get away with a cooler code name? At least Iron Man had a better color scheme, but still—

Then War Machine took off his helmet, and it didn’t matter anymore.

"Rhodey," Tony breathed, the word sounding a little broken. "Shit, Christ—you're okay."

Tony sprung forward and hugged him tightly. The last he'd seen of Rhodey, he'd been on the other end of the convoy, with the rest of the Hum-Drum-Vee, fighting through deafening gunfire, and then there had been the missiles, and Tony had woken up alone. He'd assumed...well, he'd assumed the worst, and he couldn’t bear to ask after him. Tony hadn't wanted to hear it said out loud. He'd thought that he knew the answer already, that Rhodey had been killed with the rest of the soldiers escorting him, and that it was all Tony's fault—how was he supposed to guess that Rhodey had survived the firefight, the _explosions with Tony’s name on them_?

"Uh...well, yeah, I mean. I only ran into a handful on the way here. The suit's put up with a lot worse," Rhodey said. He shook Tony off so he could fix him with a look. "Hey. What's this about?"

"I made this for you?" Tony asked. He reached out to tap on the armor, then slid his fingers into the grooves between the chest plate and neck when a wave of vertigo hit him. He shook it off and poked at the plates of the shoulder like that was his intention all along.

"Okay," Rhodey said, fixing Steve with a seriously confused look, "what am I missing here?"

Steve looked a little guilty. "Sorry. I meant to get ahold of you, but we're just now figuring it out ourselves."

"Oh, magic mumbo-jumbo, inter-dimensional mind-swap, a day in the life for you all, apparently," Tony cut in. “Is that a turret? Does mine have a turret?”

Rhodey just looked more confused.

“This isn’t our Tony,” Steve said.

“A clone?” Rhodey asked. He glanced accusatorily at Spider-Man for some reason, who threw up his hands.

“It’s, uh, complicated,” Steve said. “I should have called you sooner, but it’s under control for now—”

“As much as I love reminding everyone how complicated our lives are,” Jess interrupted, “there’s a supervillain with our names on him.”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Steve promised Rhodey.

“Right,” Tony said. It felt wrong to watch them leave without him. “And I’ll be here, I guess.”

 

 

By the time the Avengers returned, someone had hit the mute button on the world. 

It sounded as though he was listening from the end of a long tunnel, like his hearing had missed the memo and decided to head home early. He’d decided not to mention it to Jessica. Why make her worry, anyway? This is what they wanted.

War Machine landed on the balcony, his footsteps thumping in the distance. The whole team was chattering excitedly, ten points of movement at once, making Tony’s head spin trying to focus on them. He tried to find Steve (too much red white and blue on this team, his vision was blurring on the edges), the ache in his head long since built into an unrelenting hammer behind his eyes. 

He had to ask...before he left…

“Steve?” Tony put a hand out, for support when another wave of vertigo washed over him, and Steve must have misinterpreted the movement because he grabbed it automatically, lacing their fingers together. An impulsive gesture, borne from habit. 

It was... comforting. He would hold onto that, when he went back. 

“How long after making Iron Man did I meet you?” Tony asked. “How long do I have to wait?”

Steve’s smile dropped, overwhelmed with concern. He supported him with a gentle hand at his elbow. "Are you okay?" Steve asked.

"No," Tony said. "I don't think so."

"Tony?" Steve asked.

"Dizzy," Tony muttered, and he could feel his knees buckling as he said it, but there was no sensation of falling, just a rush of darkness coming up to meet him.

 

 

He didn't wake up on a bed, this time.

He didn't really wake up at all. One moment he was standing next to Steve, and the next he was blinking at Yinsen through the darkness. His chest hurt. His chest was on _fire_ , and he sucked in a shallow breath and bit back a pained noise. Tony looked from Yinsen down at the cup in his hand, half-raised as though he'd been in the process of taking a sip. He swirled the murky liquid around, watched it slop up the sides but not quite over the rim of the glass, and then glanced back up, where Yinsen continued to stare at him expectantly.

"What?" Tony asked, a little defensively.

Yinsen smiled indulgently. "I asked if you were listening, and I suppose I got my answer."

Tony took a shuddering breath. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

“I said, I’m from a small town called Gulmira,” Yinsen replied. “It’s actually a nice place.”

Did Yinsen know what had happened? Did he notice that Tony had just slipped from one dimension into another as smoothly as changing the channel?

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was starting to lose it. Trauma could do that to you, too much time stuck in the dark in this god awful cave, maybe his chest wound was infected, maybe this was all just some wild fever dream.

Or maybe not. 

Tony knew one thing. It had _felt_ real. 

Yinsen seemed to be waiting for a response from him. Tony wasn’t sure what to say. 

“You got a family?” Tony asked after a long moment. Yinsen glanced up from his work with a fond smile.

“Yes, and I will see them when I leave here,” Yinsen said. “And you, Stark?”

Tony paused. He thought of the arctic, of thousand ton icebergs melting and crumbling into the ocean, and he was already drawing up schematics in his mind for armors and watchtowers and Quinjets.

“…Not yet,” Tony replied with a tiny shrug, “but I will.”


End file.
